


mil palabras

by Goose_Goddess



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:38:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goose_Goddess/pseuds/Goose_Goddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Antonio is a painter who paints portraits of people crying. He meets Lovino, and really wants to paint him</p>
            </blockquote>





	mil palabras

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my December 19/20 entry to the 2015 AUIdeas Advent Calendar! Here is the prompt:
> 
> Stirring Portraits AU  
> Character A is an artist who primarily paints detailed portraits of people, but every single one of them is crying – not in an adorable or artistically traditional way, but in the most realistic and heartbreaking way. They practically eat, sleep, and breathe the complexity of human consciousness, so when they meet Character B, an emotionally cold individual, Character A wants nothing more than to capture the true essence of Character B in one of their famous ‘crying portraits.’

Antonio walked through the gallery slowly, watching the patrons looking at his paintings. They were all well dressed, and carried glasses of champagne, talking quietly to each other as they strode through the gallery and looked at the art hung carefully on the walls with strategic lighting giving them an ethereal glow and making the faces look even more alive.

He had come so far, from painting famous buildings and scenes of his beloved city and selling them on street corners to tourists to this beautiful gallery full of wealthy people who wanted to meet him and who wanted to buy his art. 

This was his second show, and was even bigger than the first. People were in love with his portraits. Portraits of people, some famous, some not. Portraits of people crying. But these were not people crying artistically, or in some cases not even attractively. These were people showing a depth of emotion that was rarely seen in art. These portraits showed glimpses of the souls of these people. Some were crying in heartbreak, one or two were crying in happiness and relief so profound that it could only find its way out in tears. But all of them were feeling, feeling so deeply and strongly that no one who looked at the paintings could miss the emotions they bared.

Antonio strode through the gallery, greeting people who recognized him as the artist. Some simply wanted to congratulate him on his show, some wanted to gush over his art, some wanted to know where he found his subjects. He answered all of them as well as he could, thanking those who congratulated or praised him, and answering the questions with simply a shrug and a smile. The truth was, he didn’t know where he found his subjects. He just…knew. He looked at someone and knew that they had a story, that they had memory that he needed to find and paint. 

He walked back towards the bar, planning to get a glass of champagne for himself before making another round through the gallery. And saw him. A slender, dark haired man was standing near the bar, and looking at one of his paintings. He held a glass of champagne in his hand, and he was scowling seriously at the painting. The man wasn’t remarkable, but somehow, to Antonio, he almost shone. Antonio itched to get him into his studio, to sketch the man’s dark hair with its single wayward curl. He wanted to commit that serious face to paint on canvas. To find that story.

Antonio smiled at the bartender and took a glass of champagne before stepping up behind the man he had noticed. “What do you think of it?”

The man glanced at him, then looked back at the painting. It depicted a blonde man, with long hair tied in a low tail. He was on one knee, holding a woman. The woman was only a vague image. The man, however, was clear. He was crying in utter heart break over the woman that he clearly loved.

“That is Francis.” Antonio said nodding towards the painting. “And his one true love, Jeanne. She died very young, and he has never really gotten over the heartbreak.”

The man glanced at him, then moved to the next painting. “And this?”

Antonio had followed behind the man, and looked at the painting. This showed a young man, hunched over and crying into his arms. He was seated on a rock near a large body of water. “Ah, That is Alfred. He had a falling out with his guardian. He felt he was being treated like a child, and demand his guardian respect him as an adult. His guardian refused. It tore Alfred apart.”

The man walked to the next painting. “Do all of the paintings have stories?” His voice was mild, curious.

“Yes. Of course. Without the stories, there wouldn’t be the paintings. I paint the stories to share them with the world.” Antonio smiled. 

“Hm.” The man walked slowly on, and Antonio followed him. He wanted to ask who the man was, wanted to beg him to sit for a painting. But he held his tongue and allowed the man to look at the paintings.

When they reached the end of the gallery, the man looked at him, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re still following me.”

Antonio smiled. “I wanted to ask your name.”

“Why?” The man’s voice was suddenly suspicious. 

“I want to paint you. I see a story in you and I want to put it on canvas.” 

The man looked at him for several seconds, making Antonio very nervous. “My name is Lovino.” He said finally. “What do you mean you want to paint me?”

“I want you to come to my studio. I’ll do some sketches, ask you some questions, and then I’ll paint you.”

The man turned and looked at the paintings. “You think I’m sad.”

“No,” Antonio protested. Then he sighed. He had tried to explain how he got his paintings before, but he’d never been very successful. “I don’t think your sad. I just think you have a story inside you. I’ll ask you some questions, have you describe a memory. And I’ll work from that. Sometimes the memories are sad, but sometimes they aren’t. It just has to be powerful.”

Lovino frowned and turned back to Antonio. “And you just want to paint me. You’re not hitting on me or anything.”

Antonio shook his head. “No, you are a very attractive man. But I really do want to paint you.”

Lovino handed him his glass and nodded. “Well then.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to Antonio. “I have to leave. Send me information on when and where you would like me to show up, and we’ll see.” And with that, he was gone.

Antonio tucked the card into his pocket. He’d call first thing tomorrow. una imagen es más valiosa que mil palabras

Antonio walked through the gallery slowly, watching the patrons looking at his paintings. They were all well dressed, and carried glasses of champagne, talking quietly to each other as they strode through the gallery and looked at the art hung carefully on the walls with strategic lighting giving them an ethereal glow and making the faces look even more alive.

He had come so far, from painting famous buildings and scenes of his beloved city and selling them on street corners to tourists to this beautiful gallery full of wealthy people who wanted to meet him and who wanted to buy his art. 

This was his second show, and was even bigger than the first. People were in love with his portraits. Portraits of people, some famous, some not. Portraits of people crying. But these were not people crying artistically, or in some cases not even attractively. These were people showing a depth of emotion that was rarely seen in art. These portraits showed glimpses of the souls of these people. Some were crying in heartbreak, one or two were crying in happiness and relief so profound that it could only find its way out in tears. But all of them were feeling, feeling so deeply and strongly that no one who looked at the paintings could miss the emotions they bared.

Antonio strode through the gallery, greeting people who recognized him as the artist. Some simply wanted to congratulate him on his show, some wanted to gush over his art, some wanted to know where he found his subjects. He answered all of them as well as he could, thanking those who congratulated or praised him, and answering the questions with simply a shrug and a smile. The truth was, he didn’t know where he found his subjects. He just…knew. He looked at someone and knew that they had a story, that they had memory that he needed to find and paint. 

He walked back towards the bar, planning to get a glass of champagne for himself before making another round through the gallery. And saw him. A slender, dark haired man was standing near the bar, and looking at one of his paintings. He held a glass of champagne in his hand, and he was scowling seriously at the painting. The man wasn’t remarkable, but somehow, to Antonio, he almost shone. Antonio itched to get him into his studio, to sketch the man’s dark hair with its single wayward curl. He wanted to commit that serious face to paint on canvas. To find that story.

Antonio smiled at the bartender and took a glass of champagne before stepping up behind the man he had noticed. “What do you think of it?”

The man glanced at him, then looked back at the painting. It depicted a blonde man, with long hair tied in a low tail. He was on one knee, holding a woman. The woman was only a vague image. The man, however, was clear. He was crying in utter heart break over the woman that he clearly loved.

“That is Francis.” Antonio said nodding towards the painting. “And his one true love, Jeanne. She died very young, and he has never really gotten over the heartbreak.”

The man glanced at him, then moved to the next painting. “And this?”

Antonio had followed behind the man, and looked at the painting. This showed a young man, hunched over and crying into his arms. He was seated on a rock near a large body of water. “Ah, That is Alfred. He had a falling out with his guardian. He felt he was being treated like a child, and demand his guardian respect him as an adult. His guardian refused. It tore Alfred apart.”

The man walked to the next painting. “Do all of the paintings have stories?” His voice was mild, curious.

“Yes. Of course. Without the stories, there wouldn’t be the paintings. I paint the stories to share them with the world.” Antonio smiled. 

“Hm.” The man walked slowly on, and Antonio followed him. He wanted to ask who the man was, wanted to beg him to sit for a painting. But he held his tongue and allowed the man to look at the paintings.

When they reached the end of the gallery, the man looked at him, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re still following me.”

Antonio smiled. “I wanted to ask your name.”

“Why?” The man’s voice was suddenly suspicious. 

“I want to paint you. I see a story in you and I want to put it on canvas.” 

The man looked at him for several seconds, making Antonio very nervous. “My name is Lovino.” He said finally. “What do you mean you want to paint me?”

“I want you to come to my studio. I’ll do some sketches, ask you some questions, and then I’ll paint you.”

The man turned and looked at the paintings. “You think I’m sad.”

“No,” Antonio protested. Then he sighed. He had tried to explain how he got his paintings before, but he’d never been very successful. “I don’t think your sad. I just think you have a story inside you. I’ll ask you some questions, have you describe a memory. And I’ll work from that. Sometimes the memories are sad, but sometimes they aren’t. It just has to be powerful.”

Lovino frowned and turned back to Antonio. “And you just want to paint me. You’re not hitting on me or anything.”

Antonio shook his head. “No, you are a very attractive man. But I really do want to paint you.”

Lovino handed him his glass and nodded. “Well then.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to Antonio. “I have to leave. Send me information on when and where you would like me to show up, and we’ll see.” And with that, he was gone.

Antonio tucked the card into his pocket. He’d call first thing tomorrow.


End file.
